Goodbye, Jack

Goodbye, Jack





         There is nothing special about Alexei Dohman. He works alone in his padded rolling chair, in his quiet trailer on Lot 33. The only sounds made are the compositions of Grieg pouring from his iPod station, and the clinking of his makeup supplies. He'd be naked, if not for the tailored rustic brown button up shirt, which hangs like a tattered theater curtain about his saggy, medium frame. The shirt is dingy, almost mildewed and burned sooty on the ends of the sleeves. Well worn, it's become a staple of his identity-- well, Jack Malice's anyway.



         Alexei stares in his mirror, applying a light coat of foundation. He pauses to reflect on his time working for others, applying makeup to the stars. Nobodies would enter his trailer, sleepy and hung-over, and he would transform them magically into modern day deities- Mr. Pitt, Mrs. Jolie. Now he's a star in his own right, his own version of a god; Alexei Dohman, the man behind Jack Malice.



         He returns to his small ice chest for a refill of juice and vodka. “O-jay for vitamin C and Goose for vitamin A,” he jokes. He mixes in a tall glass that's mostly vodka now, and returns the items to the cooler, taking a sip on the way back to his seat. Resting the glass on a rolling cart seated next to his vanity, he passes his chair for the restroom. While relieving himself, he checks his makeup in a different light, especially around his eyes.



         A shadow moves across the wall in the other room, “Hey,” he calls, but no one answers. Turning back to flush the toilet he notices he's wet the seat again, “Damn it.” He's a fool for thinking someone else could have been in the trailer in the first place; it's far too small. Must have been a bird outside, he thinks.



         He returns to his seat and after taking a burning gulp, goes back to work- the clock is ticking. This is the fifth installment of the Jack Malice series, Alexei's brainchild. He'd conceived the character as homage to his heroes, Lon Chaney Sr. and Jr. Of course the story changed from his original draft, but his was what brought in the big name director. It was sheer gratitude that brought the stars to act in the film. Alexei isn't the best actor, but he has enough clout to keep his role in the films, which have gotten subsequently worse as horror franchises so often do.



         So the time has come to bring an end to the character that gave Alexei something more than cosmetics. This is the end of Jack Malice and Alexei is making damn sure he looks his finest. Need to go out with a bang, he thinks, as the creeping beginning of Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King seeps through the speakers.



         His eyes are dark and sunken, more decayed looking than skeletal. The flesh is a pale greenish-gray-white with thin veins visible just beneath the surface. Sped on by inspiration, Alexei's movements quicken. Soon Jack's decayed and rotting face is staring back at him



         “You signed that damn paper!”



         His eyeliner drops to the floor as Alexei spins in his chair to face the door, but no one's there. He looks around. There's no one on the couch. No one in the bathroom. No one could have come in without his knowing. “Bobby?” he calls, half hoping his agent will answer, “Bobby is that you?” Alexei parts his window curtains to see if perhaps someone is outside. “If this is a joke, it isn't funny,” he calls out.



         After a moment, when he's satisfied there is no one, he returns to his vanity. “Probably some grip hand,” he mumbles. A gulp of vodka and he double checks his work, penciling in another spot for an extra rot hole or two.



         “You signed that god damned contract!”



         The chair crashes on the floor and Alexei catches his thigh on the underside of his table. He turns with a limp, shakily grabbing his vodka. Supplies noisily bounce and crash to the floor, creating a chorus of clattery.



         “All right who's there?” Alexei demands, “I'm in the middle of very important work and I left specific instructions that I was not to be disturbed.”



         He waits, rubbing his thigh, “If my leg disrupts my performance, I'll not only have your job, I'll have you evicted from the state of California.”



         Still nothing. He looks into his bedroom; though he's sure the sound didn't come from there. Seeing no one, he double checks the bathroom, which would have been impossible for someone to sneak into, but still. Empty.



         Frightened by the possibility of impossible voices, he looks out the windows again and sees a grip hand carrying some object or another.



         “Well, well!” he yells stomping to the door to intercept the hired help. “Hey!” he yells loud enough to draw attention, “Do you think you can keep the noise down? Some people in these trailers need to concentrate.”



         The grip hand wrinkles his brow and returns meekly, “Me? I didn't do any--”



         “I have my phone right here,” Alexei interrupts, “What's your name? Who's your supervisor?”



         “Screw you, Zombie-freak!” the grip hand shouts and continues about his way.



         Alexei's jaw drops, which if he wasn’t standing and talking, would appear to be normal decomposition. Doesn't that guy know who he's talking to? He hurls various obscenities at the man's back and slams the door. His glass is empty so he goes for a refill, cursing the entire time, “I hope he wants to act, the stupid shit. I’ll see to it he never works in this fucking town.” 



         A little juice spikes his vodka, “Useless heathen!”



         “Shut up!”



         Alexei, mid-swallow, nearly drowns. Vodka, even chilled, feels like fire in the windpipe. The voice is indeed inside the trailer. He looks to his left, thinking that to be the source, but sees only a reflection of his droopy ass with a comical criss-cross pattern in bright pink embedded into the skin.



         “Sad aint it?” the voice returns.



         Alexei nearly spills his drink, spinning around to find who could be haunting him and now reading his very thoughts.



         “Who-” he struggles to speak, partly due to the burning still lingering in his throat, mostly from growing fear.



         “Sit down,” the voice commands.



         Afraid to move or speak or even breathe, Alexei stands, listening.



         “SIT!” the voice thunders.



         He nearly jumps out of his makeup. Another gulp hopefully gives him courage to face whatever is happening. As he bends to lift his chair, Alexei has a revelation and a smirk spreads across his face: he recognizes the voice.



         He sits down and looks to the mirror and his vodka soaks the floor. Jack Malice is talking!



         “Ha-HAH!” the thing laughs, “I was wondering when you'd figure it out.”



         “H-how--” Alexei can't even finish his thought, much less his question.



         “You should see your face,” Jack says, “Oh! Mirror, right.”



         But I'm Jack, Alexei, thinks. “You're not real,” he says, “You can't be real.”



         “Can't I?” Jack asks, “It's my name all over the place: the movies, the posters, T-shirts. Hell, there's even a lunch box.”



         Alexei's head rolls across his shoulders, his neck has turned to mush. The room has gone crooked.  The couch, where he should be lying down, looks like a dinghy on a sea of beige carpet.



         Jack keeps talking, “Magazines. Toys. Halloween costumes. Me. Me. Me.” His voice is dusty and scratchy, like a steel wool being dragged across rusted steel.



         Alexei begins to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and decides to replace the vodka he spilled. He feels like he's sky diving when he reaches down for the glass. He sits up and shakes his head breathing heavily through cotton as all people do when intoxicated. Rising to his feet proves to be a terrible idea as he nearly vomits and plummets back to his seat.



         Jack Malice laughs, a sound like twisting cars and shattering windows, “Why don't you try again?”



         “Thingiwill,” Alexei says, pointing to the mirror. He finally makes it to the refrigerator and refills his glass; and proceeds to empty it again.



         “That’s it, Alexei-boy! Drink it down.”



         “You can’t be real. You don’t exist without me!” Alexei cries.



         “Funny,” Jack says, “I was going to say the same thing about you.”



         Alexei stammers, “You- you are what happens when people who are under too much stress insist on drinking heavily.”



         “So are those red bumps on you cock. What is that, Syphilis?”



         “It’s only Herpes, and it isn’t that bad. It’s just a flare up; again, something that happens with too much stress!” Alexei cries plopping himself back into his seat.



         “Whatever you whining, pisser!” Jack scoffs, “You’d have never even gotten crabs if not for me.”



        “You can’t be real,” Alexei repeats, burying his face into his hands, “Why am I hearing voices all of a sudden? Am I awake? Am I that drunk?”



        “I’m more real than you.”



        “How’s that?” Alexei asks. His make-up- his hard work, ruined by tears and wet hands that smudge everything into mud. Jack’s mirror image is unharmed.



        “You’re nobody. No one knows your name. Alexei Dohman? Who’s that?” Jack laughs



        “People know me.” Alexei rest his elbow on the vanity and places his forehead into his palm, while Jack’s words press heavy onto his shoulders.



        “When’s the last time Alexei Dohman was invited to anything? Everybody wants Jack. Any time any one invites you anywhere they invite ME! Any time anything good comes your way it’s because of ME. Hell the past five times you got laid was in full make-up! Those little fan-bitches just wanted to get ravaged by good-ole Jack.”



        Alexei points and shouts to the mirror, “That’s not true! There were two girls at a club—“



        “They thought you were that fucking Donnie Darko kid! You were doing stand-in work, Dip-shit. And you sold them on it! Ha-ha! You let them believe it the whole time. Hey, didn’t you even swear to hook them up with an agent?”



        “No,” Alexei sobs, putting his head down onto the desk. He remembers telling the girls exactly that.



        “Face it, make-up boy, even you don’t know who you are.”



        “That’s not true!” Alexei shouts, jumping to his feet, “I’m Alexei Dohman. I’m a movie star. I’m a make--- I’m a fucking magician! There’s no one in Hollywood that does what I do. There’s no one left that CAN do what I do.”



        “What? Play dress-up and miss cues? People do it all the time.”



        Alexei storms away from his mirror and returns to the bathroom, taking another sip of his drink on the way. He rests the vodka near the faucet and leans onto edge of the sink, resting on his palms; his glass rattles slightly with his shaking. Slowly, he raises his eyes to the mirror and sees only his reflection; his reddened eyes and the smudged, muddy mess of his face.



        Then Jack reappears and whispers, “You’re nothing.”



        Alexei slams his fist into the glass, cutting his hand to bits, but he doesn’t feel anything other than relief. Jack Malice disappears in an explosion of laughter. Triumphant, Alexei gulps the last of his vodka.





*          *          *





        Bobby Harris has a tough job juggling clients as an agent for film stars. His clients are mostly “B-list” actors who occasionally find just the right part to boost their career- and then they move on to other, more powerful agents who have all the right ears in Hollywood. No one ever really remembers the little guy.



        Some of his clients, however, think they are “A-list” and demand to be treated as such. Alexei Dohman is such a client and despite his marketable skills and talent, Bobby is just fed up with his prima donna bullshit.



        “I don’t know what to tell ya, G,” he says to the director, “Alexei wants this to be his way because he created the character and he wrote the story. I- I don’t know what to say.”



        G responds, “I respect that he created the character and wrote the script, but some parts just don’t make any fucking sense. I make weird movies, but my shit has a story to it; there’s a reason behind it. This… I mean come on! Jack Malice is finally killed by a toy duck? Is there supposed to be some kind of symbolism there? Some hidden meaning?”



        “I really don’t know, G.”



        “He may as well be killed by a flaming dildo,” G says before looking over the script. “You know what it is. He wants to be like the next David Lynch or Kubrik or Cronenberg, but he’s really just the next Abner Kincaid.”



        Bobby, furrows his brow and shakes his head not recognizing the name, “Who’s Abner Kincaid?”



        “Exactly! He’s no one. I just made up the name because nobody’s ever heard of him, just like Alex Dorman,” G gestures wildly in the direction of the actors’ trailers.



        “Alexei Dohman,” Bobby corrects him while rubbing his bald head. “I don’t know, G; to be completely honest, I’m thinking of dropping him after this picture. And that would make him the first client I’ve ever dropped.”



        “The way he demands everything and yells at you, I’m wondering why you haven’t already.”



         Bobby’s phone rings. “Guess who it is!” he says showing G.



         “Just ignore it, dude. He’s the one that said he didn’t want to be disturbed while he jacked off into his own face. Fuck him.”



         Bobby laughs, pushing “ignore” on the phone. “He does pay me well,” he says.



         “But he doesn’t respect you, dude,” G responds. “There isn’t enough money for him to spit on me the way he does you.”



         Bobby’s phone rings again, “Apparently, he wants to be disturbed,” Bobby jokes.



        “Yea!” he calls into the phone. All he hears on the line is some strange noise with parts of his name whispered. “Alexei? Hold on; I don’t have a good signal.”



        Bobby motions to G that he’ll be a moment and yells into the phone, “Can you hear me? Alexei? Fuck it. I’ll just walk over.” He turns to G and shrugs and shakes his head.



        The walk to the trailers is a long one, at least a quarter mile. Bobby covers it in about five minutes. As he approaches, he notices a small crowd gathered in front of Alexei’s trailer.



        “What’s going on?” he asks.



        “We heard screaming,” Alexei’s co-star, Gayle says,” then there was a loud crash. It sounds like a fight.”



        Bobby is understandably confused, “Is someone in there with Alexei?”



        “Not that I know of,” she says.



        “Has anyone tried to check on him?” he asks. The trailer is silent as a corpse.



        “It only took once for us to learn not to disturb him when he’s working on his make-up,” another person says.



        Bobby scoffs and steps to the door, knocking, “Alexei? Yo!”



        As the door opens Bobby sees Alexei lying on his back in the middle of the main room, his make-up supplies scattered about, his chair lying beside him, and a pool of blood staining the carpet around his head.



        “Alexei!” Bobby screams, “Someone call 911!”



        Bobby jumps to his client’s side, tilting his head and listening for breathing. Alexei’s body is limp and Bobby feels no pulse. His first thought is to start CPR. I’m not giving him mouth-to-mouth. I’ve seen what he sleeps with, he thinks. So Bobby simply does chest compressions for the ten minutes it takes paramedics to arrive on scene.



        As one medic interviews Bobby and the others for information, the other suctions Alexei’s mouth to remove the blood and checks for a source. Seeing nothing, he attempts to place an airway so they can provide oxygen. Resistance is met, however, and the bleeding worsens.



        IVs are placed, and medicine is delivered. A twelve-lead EKG is attached to Alexei’s chest but no rhythm is witnessed. His heart has stopped beating and the machine advises no shock be delivered. The actor is pronounced dead on the scene.



        Later, the coroner is inspecting the body to determine the exact cause of death. After reviewing the chart, he peers into the throat, using a laryngoscope. He finds something that reflects the light embedded into the wall of Alexei’s trachea. Using a long set of forceps, the doctor retrieves a rather large sliver of reflective glass; something that appears to be a shard of broken mirror.







-Bradley Johnson-

2009